


ripple

by nomwrites



Category: Charmed (2018)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2020-01-14 11:43:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18475546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomwrites/pseuds/nomwrites
Summary: “The bottom line is that time travel is allowed by the laws of physics.” - Brian GreeneOr magic.





	1. Chapter 1

Harry follows Mel up the stairs, carefully balancing the tray in his hands. Soup, water, a bowl of sliced fruit, and some crackers — everything an ailing body needs. Or someone sick with the flu can keep down, in any case.

Maggie skips past them in a rush of colour and energy, buzzing phone in one hand and a box of tissues in the other. With skill that may as well be supernatural for how inexplicable it is, she somehow manages to read and answer a text without a single stumble in her steps.

Fortune certainly favours the young as well as the bold, but there’s no reason to tempt fate. 

“Maggie,” he calls, exasperation weighing down the last syllable. “No phone on the stairs, please. I might not be able to heal you if you break your neck.”

Maggie waves a hand behind her distractedly. “You worry too much, Har. It’s fine.” Her phone buzzes again but she reaches the top of the stairs at the same time and the point becomes moot.

Ahead of him, Mel shakes her head and snorts. “Good try.”

Harry sighs.

It’s a short walk down the hallway to Macy’s room, where Maggie’s bubbly voice is already chattering away.

“Knock, knock,” Mel says, rapping gently on the open door with her booted foot. She nudges it wider to let Harry enter without bumping the tray.

Inside, the room is dimmed, shades pulled down low to block out the early morning sun. A humidifier hums quietly in the corner, gentling the dry, crisp air of fall weather. The rubbish bin beside the bed and rumpled clothes shoved gracelessly to the floor mar the usual tidiness of the room.

Macy looks away from Maggie’s maniacal pillow-fluffing and welcomes them with a tired smile.

“Hey, guys,” she says, raising her head automatically to let Maggie slide a fresh pillow under her head. Tired eyes and a pink nose peek above the thick duvet wrapped tightly around her. “Day four of the flu-pocalypse. How do I look?” 

“Much better,” Mel says, laying down the extra pair of blankets she’d been carrying on a nearby chair.

“Less zombie-ish,” Maggie adds cheerfully, taking a seat on the bed with one leg tucked underneath her.

Macy turns to Harry, eyebrows raised.

Harry suppresses an amused smile, stepping past Mel to set the tray down on the side table. “Well, I’m not sure... Are we talking Romero or The Walking Dead?”

Mel hums, adopting a thoughtful pose as she pretends to study Macy. After a beat of silence, she nods decisively and says, utterly solemn, “Plants vs. Zombies.” 

The laughter that follows brightens the room and warms the cool air. 

“You do look better,” Harry says, smiling. It gladdens him, more than he would ever dare to say out loud, to see some of Macy’s usual glow back in her cheeks. “It won’t be long now before you’re up and about again. Tomorrow perhaps. A day after at most.” 

“Great. I really need to go back to work,” Macy says, sighing. Her eyes narrow as the tray and its contents catch her attention. “Is that more borscht?”

“Chicken noodle soup. I, ah, thought you’d appreciate something more familiar,” Harry says, reaching over to open the thermos to let her have a look. Ignoring Mel’s smirk, he continues, “This will keep warm until lunch so you can have it then if you like.” 

Macy closes her eyes, breathing in the warm scent wafting from the container. “That smells really good.”

Harry finds himself unable to look away from the contentment on her face, enraptured. It would be damning if there were anyone else in the room but the people he trusts most in the world. Clearing his throat, he manages to tear his gaze away and say, “I hope you don’t mind fruit for breakfast.”

“No, this is perfect. Thank you, Harry.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

Maggie abruptly jumps off the bed, looking down at her phone in dismay. “Uh-oh. I gotta go.”

“What’s wrong?” Mel asks.

“Float emergency.”

“What?”

“For the parade?” Rolling her eyes at the blank looks she receives, Maggie adds, “Puppy parade, guys. It’s, like, the best kind of parade. Did you forget?”

Mel shrugs, exchanging a glance with Harry. “We’ve been swamped.”

“Flu,” Macy says simply. “That’s really today?”

“Yup,” Maggie replies, fingers thumbing a blisteringly fast reply on her phone. Then she pauses and gives Macy an apologetic look. “Oh shoot. Sorry, Mace. Um… It’ll be live on Insta so you can, like, live vicariously if you want?”

“I could do that,” Macy replies, mustering a grateful smile. “It’s okay. Go on. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay. I’ll see you later,” Maggie says, giving Macy a quick hug before all but running out the door.

Slumping back into her pillows, Macy sighs. “I really hate being sick. 

Abruptly, Harry decides that there are few things in the world more unbearable than the utterly dejected expression on Macy’s face. He can’t recall how many times he’s cursed the imperviousness of mortal illness to magical healing, but he adds this moment to the tally with particular frustration. Before he can say something ridiculous like offer to buy her a puppy, his phone trills in his pocket.

“Ah,” he says, taking a quick glance at the calendar entry on the screen.

“Guess that’s our cue to go, too,” Mel says, looking at her own phone. She tucks it back into her jacket and gives Macy’s ankle a playful tap. “Hey, wanna switch bodies with me? I’ll take being sick right now over going to this stupid meeting.” 

Harry agrees with her wholeheartedly; he’s all for earnest discussions about policy changes or student concerns, but there are only so many times he can listen to complaints about staplers being stolen or food being improperly labelled in the communal pantry without wishing to jump out of a window.

“No, thanks.” Macy laughs. “That’s one thing I’m not missing about work. But you guys go. You already got me everything I need for another day in bed. And I have Netflix on my phone.”

“Alright. Rest well,” Harry says, resisting the urge to fuss with the duvet. He clasps his hands behind his back to be safe. “Call us if you need anything.”

Mel pokes him in the side, the expression on her face altogether too knowing. Harry very carefully does not react and Mel snorts. “What he said.”

“Thanks,” Macy says, snuggling deeper into the soft down. “I will.”

—————

Sometimes, Harry wonders if he’s drawn to academia because it’s been written into him, the way everything else but devotion to duty has been written out. Or perhaps his past holds the answers, out of reach but for the few fragments his short stint in Tartarus had managed dredge up. More likely, he thinks, it’s that the evolution of knowledge—and the sheer staggering breadth of it—is one of the few balms he’s ever found effective against the creeping malaise of the decades dragging on.

Today, unfortunately, it feels less like a balm and more like a headache.

After a solid hour of roundly failing to discourage a proposed department outing at the faculty meeting (he’s all for improved morale in the workplace but not if it takes him—and Mel—away from more pressing duties), the morning plods on with the usual litany of petty complaints and whinging from the faculty; pleas, and in some cases, outright begging from students regarding deadlines and grades; and trying to make sense of what appears to be a whimsical schedule for next term’s classes, created by someone with little idea of how time or space works.

By lunchtime, Harry is exhausted. Narrowly escaping being cornered by Dr. Fellows, who has been bringing up the department’s budgetary allocations every time she sees him, he speeds his way down the corridors to his office, well and truly in the throes of a pounding headache. Luck, finally, seems to be with him for he doesn’t encounter a single soul on the way. He ducks into the familiar space with a sigh of relief, closing his eyes as he massages the bridge of his nose.

“Tea?”

“Please,” Harry replies automatically, before his eyes fly open and he freezes mid-step.

“Sorry for barging in,” Macy says, pale and strained under the afternoon light streaming through the window. She isn’t looking at him, busy meticulously arranging a tea tray behind his desk. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” he says, pushing past the surprise. “But you should be resting at home. Has something happened?” He’s checked his phone regularly, almost compulsively, throughout the morning but there had been no messages from Macy and certainly no summons from their charge-bond.

“You’re such a worrier,” Macy says, laughing softly. She meets his eyes and abruptly fumbles one of the teacups right off the tray. Fortunately, she catches it in time to prevent an untimely ceramic death. “Oh sh—Sorry.”

“No harm done,” Harry says. “Nice catch.”

“I really love this set, you know.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Macy looks up and this time she holds his gaze. A bit more intensely than he’s expecting, fond smile a little strange at the edges. “Nothing happened. I promise.”

“Oh. That’s good.” And he must be more thrown off than he realizes because the next words out of his mouth are: “Then why are you here?”

“Because I love warm welcomes like that, I guess,” Macy says, echoing a line he’d used on her once.

Harry laughs. The familiar banter is gentler and less barbed than it would be with Mel, but no less mischievous for it. Something in him eases. “My apologies. I meant, you only needed to call and I would have come to you. What happened to staying in bed for another day?” 

“I needed to get out of the house. Turns out, a really good nap—and one of Marisol’s hidden potions—cures all ills.”

“Really,” Harry says, flat and disbelieving. The dark circles under Macy’s eyes are more pronounced than they’d been earlier in the morning and her hands shake as she attempts to pour the tea. “Macy, perhaps you should—”

“There are puppies, Harry.” And _puppy dog eyes_ , blast it. Macy’s been learning well from Maggie. “And I know the parade’s not for a few more hours, but I’ve been stuck at the house for like a month now—”

“Four days,” Harry corrects, frowning.

“Felt longer,” Macy says. “Anyway, I thought, since I’m going out anyway, why not just take advantage of the rest of the day?”

“What does that mean?”

“Right now? Drinking really good tea with a really good friend.”

Harry opens his mouth, closes it, then sighs. “Here, please,” he says, taking the teapot from Macy. “Sit, sit. I’ll pour.”

Instead of sitting in his chair as he’d meant for her to do, or on the other side of the desk as she usually does, Macy floats one of the other chairs over so that they’re sitting side by side. Harry blinks, taken aback at the arrangement and concerned about Macy over-exerting herself while she’s still ill, but refrains from making a comment.

Macy accepts the cup he hands her, practically nuzzling the rising steam.

“Oh my God,” she moans, far more emphatically than any cup of tea that hasn’t even been drunk yet can possibly warrant. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed this.”

Bemused (and a little warm for reasons he isn’t willing to indulge at the moment), Harry leans back in his chair, eyebrows raised. “Clearly,” he says, stirring in sugar and squeezing a wedge of lemon in his own cup. “I didn’t realize you liked Earl Grey that much.”

“Neither did I.” Macy scoots her chair closer, and their knees knock together. “But it’s not just the tea. I’ve missed sitting here with you like this.”

“Like this?” Harry repeats, confused. He’d sat with her last night, roasted green instead of Earl Gray, reading articles from a genetics journal out loud to spare her tired eyes. “Do you mean in my office?”

“Right.” 

Harry takes a sip of his tea and winces. Too hot, still, but in a minute or two it will be lovely. “I— Well, I suppose I’ve missed having you here as well,” he says, fibbing a little because there’s no ‘supposing’ about it. He sees her every day at home, of course, but he’s come to look forward to their little tea and bakes. Between the influx of demonic activity and Macy’s illness, they haven’t met like this in a while.

A minute passes and he’s right. The tea is lovely. So is Macy’s smile when she says, “Good?”

“Very. Thank you for this. I needed it.” 

“You’re welcome.”

For a long moment, there is nothing but quiet and calm around them and the world outside fades into a gentle buzz. Macy lists to the side, slumping against Harry uncharacteristically. She isn’t often one to seek physical comfort from others, even her sisters, and Harry wonders if she’s falling asleep. She must be exhausted. 

They’re veering on the edge of impropriety, but he doesn’t move. His headache is gone and Macy seems, for the first time since he walked in on her, warm and real. He’s willing to pretend they have no obligations to answer to for a moment longer—

“Harry?”

“Yes?”

“That potion is taking a little while to work. Do you mind if I take a nap?”

“...not at all.”

—and doesn’t stop Macy from resting her head on his shoulder. 

————— 

Someone’s knocking on the door. Loud, angry, impatient.

“Professor Greenwood? Are you in there?”

Harry blinks, drowsy and disoriented. His neck is stiff and his arm is numb, pinned to his side by a soft weight. Despite the discomfort, he feels content, strangely reluctant to rouse himself. But a niggling feeling at the back of his mind seems terribly insistent that he should. Helpfully, sunlight stabs at his eyes and it’s so utterly offensive to his English sensibilities that he snaps to wakefulness in an instant and tries to drown himself in the nearest cup of tea.

 _Cold_ tea.  

Harry recoils. “Oh dear God, that’s horrific.” 

“Hm?” The bundle of lovely warmth against his side mutters and Harry’s mouth clicks shut. 

Right. 

Macy.

Belatedly, Harry realizes that he’s in a rather compromising position and is grateful for the prescience he’d displayed in locking the door. Of course, he’d done it in the anticipation of having at least an hour of peace and quiet alone, but he can’t find it in himself to be regretful of Macy’s company. 

Macy shifts against him, her hair tickling his face. Harry clears his throat and says, quietly, “Macy? I think, perhaps, you should wake up now.” 

“Professor Greenwood! I’d like to have a word if you’re in. It’s important.”

“ _Macy_.” 

Instead of sitting up, Macy only burrows deeper against him, arms winding around his waist. “Who is that?” she grumbles. 

“That’s, ah, that’s Dr. Fellows,” Harry stutters. It’s impossible to adequately convey how much he’d rather wait Fellows out and simply go back to sleep, but he grits his teeth and gently, but firmly, pushes Macy upright. “I’m terribly sorry, but I… I really should—” 

“Get lunch?” Macy yawns, squinting sleepily at the ornate clock on the wall. “We missed it and I’m starving. Aren’t you?” 

Harry’s stomach agrees, loudly enough to make him blush in embarrassment.

Macy laughs. “I think that’s a big yes.” 

“I suppose it is,” Harry says, chuckling. “I could make us something to eat at home?”

“Nope. I’m seizing the day, remember? And I’m feeling a lot better now. The potion’s working.”

“...then where would you like to go?”

Macy grins, pulling Harry up with her. “Come on. We can have dinner for lunch and go to that Indian place on Willow Street. You love their curry.”

“I do?” Harry frowns in thought. “I don’t recall any Indian restaurants on—”

“I meant you’ll love their curry. They’re new. Reviews are pretty good.”

“ _Professor!_ ”

Macy raises her eyebrows, amused. “Harry, if you don’t answer her, she’s going to break down the door.”

“Right.” Harry clears his throat, hurriedly smoothing down the wrinkles on his suit. Macy catches his arm before he can step up to the door, wordlessly straightening his tie and fussing with his collar. It’s all so casually familiar.

“Thank you,” he says, tapping his fingers nervously against his thigh. The world feels off-kilter. Something is— 

“Want me to hide under your desk?”

“Hide under my— _What_?” Harry’s mouth drops open. The expression on his face must be priceless because Macy’s laughter is loud enough to interrupt the latest round of assault on his door. “That isn’t funny.”

“It was a genuine offer,” Macy says, smiling innocently.

Harry shakes his head, feeling inordinately fond. He leans toward her, whispering conspiratorially. “Well, we’ve no need to be sordid, but perhaps you could pretend to be more poorly than you currently seem? We’ll get out of here much faster.”

The smile on Macy’s face turns into a mischievous grin. “Watch me.”


	2. Chapter 2

The curry house turns out to be a charming little hole-in-the-wall sandwiched between a notary’s office and a pawnshop. It’s all but deserted when they walk in, but the owner’s surprised smile is warm and welcoming and the musk of cumin, turmeric, and a dozen other spices heat the air, blooming into a mouthwatering aroma. 

Before long, they’re tucking into one of the best meals Harry’s ever had. The food is distinctly British Indian. Mr. Chakrabarti, the owner, is distinctly Scouse. There is enthusiastic talk about the English Premiere League, a plate of warm naan with the most divine mango chutney, and a three-way argument about the best way to bake a scone. By the time the swarthy man heads back into the kitchen, Harry’s forgotten about his headache entirely and his cheeks have started to ache from smiling so much.

That surreal trip to Manchester aside, he hasn’t felt this close to his homeland in decades.

“Why don’t you go?” Macy says, spooning a portion of her vindaloo onto his plate. In turn, he gives her a generous helping of chicken tikka masala. The curry are absolutely delicious and Harry resolves to try every single dish on the menu with glee.

He thinks it over, unconsciously tearing a piece of naan to pieces. It would be nice to see the old country with no agenda other than to be there for once. Not Manchester perhaps. Too risky. But London -- he hasn’t been back to London since the Swinging Sixties when a particularly annoying fae had whisked away his charge on a mischief-making jaunt around the world. He’d materialized around the corner from a Victorian flat being torn down and ended up following their trail to a packed Chinese at Brompton Road. Everything had pulsed with life, in technicolor, and he’d been entranced. 

There’d been a musician stood right outside the doors of the restaurant, a well-loved guitar in hand. Beat-up boots on his feet and ripped leathers draped across his body. And a gorgeous smile aimed right at Harry. He’d wanted to stay and watch him play  _ Day Tripper _ with his clever fingers for hours. But then he’d felt the tug of his charge’s distress--far away in a Singaporean port--and that had been that.

He wants to go back, he realises, with a fierce determination that surprises him. Such personal considerations have been unthinkable for so long, weighed down by the baggage of uncertainties. And fear. Of discovery, he supposes, and everything that goes with it. Seeing Carter had been liberating in many ways. Mel’s support had righted his foundations. And later, Maggie and Macy had come to him with assurances and affection. He hasn’t felt so grounded, in the best possible way, since he died and was reborn. Still… He shakes his head. “I can’t just leave.”

“Why not?’”

“I have duties here. You know that.”

Macy hums, finishing a mouthful of chicken with deliberate slowness. Harry has no doubt she’s savoring the food as well, but the glint in her eyes tells him she’s amused.

“Take some leave,” she says finally. “The faculty will be fine.”

“And my other job?”

This time Macy doesn’t bother playing down the amusement on her face. Or the fact that’s she’s looking at him with such warm indulgence Harry’s stomach flutters rather embarrassingly.

“You already know the answer,” she says. 

And Harry does, but considering the idea is almost too presumptuous. His main duty is to his charges and if they go with him then... They’ll come with him if he asks. They’ll drop everything if he asks. It’s still a bit overwhelming sometimes to realize how much they care for him. A smile tugs at his mouth. To hell with caution.

“Yes, alright. We’ll plan for it.” 

Macy grins.

“The Elders won’t be happy,” he says absently, turning back to his food.

There’s a hand over his, suddenly, grip strong and warm, just on the edge of being too tight. He grips back instinctively anyway and looks up. Macy’s still smiling but her eyes are aglow with something eager and hard.

“Don’t worry about them,” she says. “They don’t matter.” 

“I’m sorry?”

“They won’t be a problem. I promise.”

Harry frowns. “Are you feeling alright?”

“You’re such a worrywart.” Macy squeezes his hand reassuringly. “Potion’s still working. I’m fine. Don’t I look fine?”

_ You look beautiful, _ Harry wants to say. 

“There’s a stain on your shirt,” he says instead.

 ___________________  
  


“So,” Mr. Chakrabarti says. “How long have you been together?”

Harry chokes on his tea and is fervently glad that Macy’s gone to the loo. If Mr. Chakrabarti’s booming laugh is any indication, he must be blushing to high heavens. Curse his English skin. 

“We’re not, um, not like that,” Harry stammers. “We’re just friends.”

“Are you now?” Narrowed eyes peer at him dubiously for a long moment. “Bah!” the man exclaims, patting Harry’s shoulder heartily. Harry’s not much of one for physically effusive people but Mr. Chakrabarti’s gruff Northern friendliness is too endearing to resist. Even Macy had been unusually forthcoming. “Alright, lad. Alright. Discreet as a clam, I am.”

“Isn’t the expression ‘happy as a clam’?”

“Yeah but they’re discreet too, ain’t they? They’re all tiny-like.”

Harry chuckles. “They are indeed. But as I said, we’re not like that.”

Mr. Chakrabarti flicks a glance at the loo. A beat and then: “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Ah,” he says, a knowing smile on his bearded face. “It’s like  _ that _ .” He holds up a placating hand before Harry can open his mouth to protest. “I’m just sayin’. Been where you are. But I don’t think you’re in the same place.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t look at each other the same way.”

“Oh,” Harry says. A leaden ball sits heavy in his stomach. “No, I suppose not.”

“No no. None of that,” Mr. Chakrabarti says. “Not what I meant. You look at her like you’re in love.”

Harry can’t breathe suddenly. He hasn’t had the courage to say it out loud and the people who know the implications of it, the  _ complications _ of it, know better than to do so. But the words are out there now and everything is suddenly exhilaratingly real.

“New love I thought,” the other man continues. “It’s why I asked how long you been together. ‘Cos she doesn’t look at you like she just fell in love. She looks at you like you’re a part of her.”

“...What?” 

“Been married to my husband twenty-five years now. I know the look.”

“What?”

The loo door opens and Macy steps out. Harry’s ears are ringing.

“I think the stain’s set,” she says, peering down at her shirt. “Got most of it though.”

“Be a souvenir then,” Mr. Chakrabarti says. “Frame it. My place will be world famous one day, mark my words.”

Macy laughs. “I wouldn’t be surprised.” She looks over at them properly, finally, and frowns. “Harry? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Harry says, but it comes out like a croak. He clears his throat and tries again. “Yes, of course. Just thinking about all the work waiting back at the office.”

Mr. Chakrabarti, wonderfully observant as he is, must notice he’s not quite with them. “I was just tellin’ Harry here that my luck’s havin’ a turnabout. Didn’t expect customers for another week, you know? Just opened yesterday and we didn’t really have money to advertise. Been meanin’ to ask… How’d you find my place?”

“Oh, you know, someone mentioned it on twitter.”

“Do you remember who it was? I’d like to give ‘em a free lunch some time.”

Shaking her head, Macy says, “No, sorry. If I find the tweet again, I’ll show you when we come back.”

Mr. Chakrabarti brightens, the chair he’s pulled to their table rattling merrily under his swarthy bulk. “Comin’ back, eh? That’s good to hear. Bring your friends too.”

“We’ll bring her sisters,” Harry says, watching Macy’s face intently. He manages a smile. “And my faculty will love this place.”

Macy comes over to Harry as he stands. As before, she fixes his tie and his collar, hands moving swift and sure. He’d been taken aback the first time, too distracted, but he watches her hands now, her face. The small barely noticeable scar underneath her jaw. The bigger one hidden in her hair. Three fingers on her left hand are slightly crooked. 

A frisson of emotion runs down his spine. Anger, he realizes. Blinding. Scorching. He hasn’t felt this way in— He’s never felt this way. It’s a wonder no one’s noticed yet. He’s made of light, isn’t he? He checks his hands to make sure he isn’t actually ablaze.

“There,” Macy says, stepping back.

“Thank you,” Harry says. 

He fetches Macy’s coat, helps her put it on. Her collar gets pulled aside for a moment and he catches another scar, a deep burn, at the base of her throat. The anger turns cold and he doesn’t have to check if he’s spilling light this time because what he’s feeling is much, much darker.

At the door, Mr. Chakrabarti stops him for a moment. “Remember what I said alright?” he says, quietly enough that Macy, who’s already stepped out, won’t hear. “You’ll be fine, lad.”

Harry nods. “Thank you. It was very enlightening.”

Outside, Macy winds her arm around his. It’s cold enough to press against each other without the need for excuses. Other people walk by them, ones and twos and threes, lost in their own worlds just like they are. There’s chatter here and there, hushed by a rising wind, and the  _ clop-clopping _ of a horse-drawn carriage drawing near. A beat-up sedan, gray with peeling paint, drives past.

“Home now?” he asks.

“Not yet,” she says. “Let’s keep walking.”

He closes his eyes briefly, reaching for a warm bright light as familiar and dear to him as his own heart. 

It doesn’t take him long to decide.

“Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not that happy with how this chapter turned out but I wanted to try to finish this story before the Season 2 premiere. The next chapter is the conclusion so fingers crossed that comes out before Oct. 11. I mean, it probably won’t cause I’ve got a lot of things to do in the next two days but I’m certainly gonna give it a try.


	3. Chapter 3

They make it five steps before Macy pulls on Harry’s arm with a giddy little gasp.

_ Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop. _

The carriage he’d heard has caught her attention. It’s a handsome construction, open-faced and newly-painted a deep mahogany, with a dappled grey horse at its lead. The driver sees them looking and tips her tall hat, smiling wide. 

"The Ren Faire!" Macy says. "I forgot it was in town."

"No surprise. You've been busy."

"Right,” she says, her quick smile rueful and bitter. Would he have caught it — that bitterness — if he wasn’t watching her so closely now? 

The carriage halts beside them as the driver calls down, “Hey there!”

“Hello,” Harry says, greeting her with a polite smile. It feels surreal to have a such a mundane interaction when the world is a half-step out of sync, shifted and wrong like the needle on a phonograph skipping off track. Keeping calm and carrying on are rather tall orders at the moment but he has English etiquette to fall back on and the humbling realization that he owes Mel an apology:

He’s harped on her, many times on many occasions, about anger clouding the mind but he finds now that the opposite is true — his mind has never been clearer.

Macy steps towards the horse and he finds himself holding his breath.

“His name’s Lou,” the driver says, patting the animal’s rump affectionately. “Go on, he’s real friendly.”

"Hi there, Lou," Macy says. She reaches out tentatively but the horse has no such reservations. As soon as she's within reach, it nuzzles into her hand, its gentle snorting breath sounding pleased. "Oh!"

The tense line of Macy’s body softens. There’s a tell-tale shine in her eyes, quickly hidden as she rests her head against Lou’s. The moment goes on, silent and patient, because the driver seems perfectly content to let Macy commune with her horse and Harry is perfectly content to let the ice in his bones spread, bolstering against the knee-weakening relief flooding through his body. 

There’s another thing he didn’t know about anger — how it can be fed so easily by love.

—————

The driver (“ _ June _ like the month!”) tries valiantly to make conversation as she delivers them to the faire but Macy’s responses are withdrawn and Harry is distracted. It’s a far cry from the lively chatter at the curry house but he figures they’re getting through it well enough without being outright rude. Eventually, they lapse into a fairly comfortable silence, with June only occasionally giving them wistful looks. There’s no doubt at all about her assumptions but neither of them do anything to dissuade it.

Macy settles against him, eyes closed. Thick, curly hair drapes warmth against his neck, like the scarf he’d forgotten at home. It reminds him of earlier at the office, but this time he doesn’t hesitate to put his arm over her shoulders and draw her close. He could say something about the weather, about the carriage’s tight fit. But the need for excuses seems laughable now. 

Her hands are restless on her lap, clenching and unclenching, so he offers her his own. With alacrity, she folds his hand between hers like it’s something precious. Like it’s something she can’t bear to lose.

“I’m sorry for being so clingy today,” she murmurs.

“It’s quite alright.”

“Are you sure it’s okay for you to ditch work?”

“Now who’s being the worrywart?”

“It’s just—you could get in trouble if someone sees us.”

“I really don’t care.”

A thumb, slim and calloused in the way of industrious people, rubs idly at the back of his hand. “That’s not like you.”

“No? Then perhaps I should say there’s something I care about more.”

“Something?”

“Someone.” 

Silence falls between them, somehow strained and comfortable at once. The horse’s hoofbeats fill the lack of conversation, rhythmic and soothing as they go over paved roads and the occasional cobblestone. Scenery passes by, a hodge-podge of storefronts with charmingly painted signs and buttoned-down businesses tucked in between. Harry counts the churches and coffee shops as they pass by, each number more baffling than the last. He gets to thirteen before Macy speaks again.

“Harry?”

“Yes?”

“You’re angry.”

“...Yes.”

She squeezes his hand, quick and reassuring.

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

“I know.”  

“Of course you do.” There is no surprise in her voice, only the fondest affection. “You know me so well.”

“I hope so.”

Macy leans in, taut as a bowstring but her words fall softly against his ear. “Can I ask you for a favor first?”

Up front, June’s eyes flicker toward them, a blush darkening her cheeks. She looks away quickly, grinning from ear to ear. 

How must they look, Harry thinks, entwined as intimately as any pair of lovers. But it’s a passing thought in a rapidly shrinking world where everything except the space they’re occupying has ceased to exist. Macy’s hand is on his jaw, turning his face gently to meet her eyes. 

_ She looks at you like you’re a part of her. _

The urge to look away is overwhelming. He shouldn’t be seeing this, he shouldn’t be  _ allowed _ to see this. Everything — he swallows — everything is laid bare. There’s a word floating in his mind, vast and terrifying and everything he’s never allowed himself to dream of. But this moment doesn’t belong to him — it can’t — so he reaches for the warm, bright connection at the other end of his soul and lets it tether him to the ground.

“A favor?” 

“Can we—” A quick breath, in and out, like she’s gathering courage. He can feel the little puffs of warm air against his mouth. “Can we just enjoy the faire like it’s any other day? Like it’s just us. I’ll tell you everything after.”

He thinks about all the things he doesn’t know and all the things he does. The scale tips toward the former and to proceed with such a lack of knowledge would be perilous. He’s learned that the hard way. With Charity. With Fiona. But what he does know, the truths he’s certain of, cannot possibly be measured or quantified. 

_ Just us. _

“Alright,” he says, taking the sort of leap that’s become familiar over the last year. “Yes, that’s— We can do that.” 

Macy surges forward, throwing her arms around him. “Thank you,” she says. “You have no idea what this means to me. I just need... Thank you.”

The carriage is too narrow to properly turn and one of his arms is pinned to his side, but Harry reciprocates as best as he can. He’s starting to suspect that whatever is forming in his head will be far worse in reality. But he pushes that thought aside. What he needs to do now is pack it all up into a box in the back of his mind before they arrive at the faire. Fortunately, he has plenty of experience with compartmentalization. 

The theories, the fears, the  _ anger  _ will be waiting when he’s ready.

But first, they’re going to have a good time.  
  


 


	4. Chapter 4

KING ARTHUR’S FAIRE, says the sign nailed onto the wooden archway. Flowery vines decorate the beams, real blooms of white, yellow, and red. Multicolored ribbons wind down the poles all the way to the ground. A jester in garishly colored tights ushers arriving patrons in, the little bells on his elaborate hat tinkling merrily with every movement.

“Welcome, My Lady, My Lord,” the jester says, whipping his hat off to give them a courtly bow. “No better way to spend your day than at the revels of the Good King’s Court!”

“Arthur?” Macy says, eyebrows raised. “As in Camelot?”

“The very same.”

“Excellent,” Harry says. “I’ve never been to an Arthurian faire. Are the knights of the round table here then?”

“Aye. They roam the lanes if you wish to meet them.” The jester leans in, looking around comically for eavesdroppers. “If you happen upon Perceval, know that he has a fondness for mince pie. Offer him one and he shall look upon you with favor. He may even let you join the Quest for the Holy Grail.”

Macy exchanges an amused look with Harry. “Good to know. Thanks.”

The jester bows again, much lower this time, legs extended with acrobatic flair. “A pleasure to be of service.” A folded piece of paper appears in his hand as if by magic. “A guide to aid in your revelry.”

They thank him and he wanders off, accosting a patron dressed like a dragon. 

Harry looks around, bemused. 

Many people are dressed as they are, in modern clothing, but there is an almost equal number in all manner of historical and fantastical costumes. Billowy blouses and skirts brush past them, as do tights in every color of the rainbow. A Roman centurion walks hand-in-hand with a Viking warrior dressed in pelts while some distance ahead, a gaggle of wizards in bright blue and yellow robes gesticulate with their staves. Metal glints every so often, tell-tale signs of the knights walking amongst the crowd.

A small sign next to a refreshment stall near the entrance says: TIME-TRAVELERS WELCOME.

Macy snorts.

“ _Well then_ ,” Harry says, narrowly avoiding a group of green-garbed elves in deep argument with a gang of pirates. “Where to first?”

—————

Their first stop turns out to be a paper cup each of warm mulled cider. The line at the stall is long but quick-moving and ultimately more than worth the short wait. The first hit of spices blended beautifully with sweet apple is utter bliss — nutmeg, cloves, vanilla, cinnamon and something else he can’t identify. That’s two places now that they’ve come upon proprietors with an enviable mastery of flavors and spices. Harry can’t wait to come back with—

He can’t wait to come back.

Breathing deeply, he lets the golden warmth of the cider chase away the chill of the afternoon. 

“Ambrosia,” Macy says, sighing with pleasure and all but hugging the cup to her chest.

“Ambrosia,” he echoes, restraining the urge to drain his in one go.

They give the map a cursory glance to see which performances are scheduled but otherwise decide to explore on their own and discover all the treasures and curiosities as they will. Not knowing what awaits them at every lane feels like an adventure, which they both agree is entirely in the spirit of an Arthurian gathering. 

In one lane, a fortune teller with smoky eyes and an inviting smile tries to lure them into her tent but they decline politely and move on swiftly. In another, Titania and Oberon walk in a procession, heralded by fairies, wood nymphs, and satyrs. Harry and Macy bow dutifully, receiving green crowns made of leaves and twine which they bestow on a pair of very small children looking on in awe. 

They pass on archery and knife-throwing, not quite up to activities so close to demon-fighting, but participate enthusiastically in an impromptu Trivial Pursuit throwdown against a pair of courtiers, four of the seven dwarves, and an eager Gawaine. Between Harry’s extensive knowledge of history and Macy’s encyclopedic knowledge of science, they give Happy and Grumpy a good fight. It’s neck and neck in the entertainment questions but they lose out, ultimately, on sports. It turns out neither of them knows anything about golf. 

(Gawaine, who had allied himself with the dwarves halfway through, crows in victory but flees when he sees the Lady of the Lake approaching. The courtiers titter and mock his escape.) 

At a stall full of baubles and trinkets, there is a long discussion about the period accuracy of the offerings and an even longer one of whether or not Harry would look good with piercings. 

“Yes, you would,” Macy insists, eyes glinting with appreciation as she holds a gold stud against his ear with a flat blue stone at its center. She picks another one — silver this time, with a hollow moon dangling from the bottom. “These are perfect for you.”

Harry laughs. “Thank you but jewelry isn’t quite my style.”

“You’d be surprised.” 

“I don’t think—” Then the words and the context of what may or may not be happening registers and his eyes widen, mouth falling open. The pandora’s box in the back of his head cracks open.

Macy freezes, seeming to realize what it is she’s said. She looks away, lips pursed, and busies herself with a basket of crafted metal ornaments as if her life depends on it.

In the midst of one of the busier lanes in the faire, with the bustling noise of a crowd of people around them, their little island of sudden quiet is excruciatingly awkward. 

Then a knight toddles by, clanking and creaking, blinding in his shiny armor. He hands a flower to every person he passes, gallantly bowing at whim. Harry blinks at the yellow carnation in his hand, and suddenly he can feel a chuckle bubbling in his throat. It escapes his mouth, surprising Macy into meeting his eyes, and then she’s off. Before long, they’re both laughing hard, grinning like loons. 

“Okay, you’re right. Not the time for jewelry.”

“Mmm. Later.”

Macy reaches out, twining her fingers between his and he closes his hand around hers without hesitation. They lead each other from one stall to the next and when the next lane turns out to be full of baked pastries of all shapes and sizes — sweets and tarts and everything in between — it feels like a reward.

With a glee he hasn't felt in a while, Harry says, “My Lady, I think we’ve found our treasure.”

“Indeed, My Lord,” Macy replies, eyes lit up. She’s all but quivering in excitement. 

“Shall we?”

“We shall.”

—————

By the time they take a breather from baked euphoria, they're stuffed full, with a bag of flaky, buttery goodness in hand, and the proprietors are waving goodbye with shocked amusement. 

"Think we went overboard?" Macy says, licking sticky tart off her fingers.

Harry leans in to take a bite of the round pastry in her other hand. "Definitely not."

—————

Walking off everything they ate proves highly entertaining when they happen upon the Human Chess game. The players are irrelevant. The board itself is the draw. Defeated pieces gripe at the sidelines while those remaining on the board heckle the opposing side. The White Bishop throws a very dramatic fit upon being captured until the Black Castle sets upon him and tickles him into submission. 

Harry gets caught up, shouting instructions and criticisms alongside a boisterous crowd. He cheers for Black and the bloke beside him thumps his back with aggressive camaraderie. When their side wins, the White King’s theatrical wail of despair sends the crowd into hysterics.

“That was a performance,” Harry says, wiping away tears of laughter with the back of his hand. He glances at Macy. “You were quiet though. You weren’t bored, I hope?”

Perhaps it’s the blurriness in his eyes but the smile Macy gives him is softer than anything he’s ever seen. She shakes her head. “Nope. Best thing I’ve seen in a long time.”

“High praise. You liked the match then? Black was—”

“I wasn’t watching the match, Harry.”

“Then what—”

Her smile widens, eyes twinkling. “I think one of my favorite things in the world is watching you have fun.”

“Oh.”

“And now you’re blushing.” Macy chuckles, tugging at his arm. “Come on. The jousting’s about to start. We should hurry.”

Harry clears his throat. “Right."

 _There will be no moving on from this_ , he thinks, dread and adoration coiling in his heart.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never been to a Ren Faire but I've always found them fascinating. Imagine my surprise and delight when research revealed that it wasn't uncommon for people to come in costumes and that "Time-Travel" (ie. wearing dress from different eras) was sometimes encouraged.
> 
> Fair or faire?
> 
> I like the latter better. Sounds more magical.


	5. Chapter 5

The route to the jousting area is jam-packed. No surprise for the faire’s highlight event. The push and pull of the bodies around them is irritating, but at least they’re flowing steadily forward. Macy has her hand tight around Harry’s but the seething press of humanity is making it harder and harder to stay together.

“Make way, folks! Make way!”

A yelping mass of burly muscle pushes onto Harry’s back, ripping his hand right out of Macy’s grip. Huffing in annoyance, he steadies the man — who apologizes profusely — and looks over his shoulder. A phalanx of courtiers and squires is pushing to the front, evidently late to their appointments if the harried looks on their faces are any indication.

“Apologies! Our humblest apologies!”

“Harry!”

In the seconds of separation, a dozen bodies have surged between them. He can barely see the top of Macy’s head past the tall hats and tall heads. Unless he wants to start elbowing people aside, they’re simply going to have to meet up once the crowd isn’t quite so confined in the lanes.

“I’ll meet you ahead!” he says, straining over the noise of the crowd.

“Harry!” 

This time there’s intent in her voice, a summons that tugs at his soul. As a Whitelighter, a charge’s call is imperative, taking priority over everything else. But keeping the magical veil intact is a directive almost literally carved into his skin and with no danger immediately apparent, orbing is out of the question. Fortunately, the knife-throwing station is only a few yards away. There’ll be enough space fenced off there to find each other and take a breather. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, shouldering through the crowd. He smiles apologetically at a woman who has to gather her skirts to let him pass and finally bursts through to an area cordoned off with bits of rope tied around wooden pegs. Except for the attendant sitting in one corner sharpening a pair of long knives and a row of marked targets at the other end of the square, the small space is blessedly empty.

He turns, scanning the passing crowd to find Macy. Spotting her is easy, his eyes drawn immediately to her bowed head and he wonders idly if that’s pattern recognition — finding someone who’s so familiar to him he merely needs a second’s glance to pick her out of a crowd — or if it’s something more otherworldly. Then he gets a look at her eyes and realizes it’s both.

Her eyes are black.

“Macy!” He calls to her, flickers of panic thrumming under his skin. Her demonic side isn’t an unfamiliar sight to him but here and now in the middle of a crowd of unsuspecting people—

Her eyes could be excused, he thinks. Certainly, they’ve seen more than one patron with outlandish contacts as part of their costume. That in itself is not disastrous. But the line of her shoulders are stiff and he can see now that she’s breathing hard. He’s certain, though he can’t see her hands, that her knuckles are white and her fingers are curled into fists. 

This is a Macy he is, indeed, very familiar with.

This is a Macy backed into a corner and about to attack.

“Macy! Over here! Macy!”

Her head snaps toward him frantically, like a drowning person spotting a lifeline. The intensity with which she regards him should be unnerving but he only feels a sense of relief. He beckons her, and people part around her moving form like a rock slicing through water. They don’t even look, eyes front or around — anywhere but at Macy — but some part of their primal brains must recognize the danger.

Except for one drunken idiot whose survival instinct seems to have been drowned in a vat of cheap beer.

“Hey, baby, what’s your hurry?” the idiot slurs, grabbing Macy’s wrist as she passes him. “You can stay right here—” 

Harry dives forward just as the man screams in pain. He pulls them both out of the crowd, breaking them apart and shielding Macy from view. The man falls to his knees, clutching his hand. A few people turn their heads, looking curiously on the way rubberneckers usually do, but no one breaks free of the mob. If they were close enough to smell the man’s burning flesh, would they be spurred to action?

“Here, let me help you,” Harry says, grabbing the man’s injured hand to pull him up, utterly indifferent to the pained gasp it elicits. He uses the cover of their clasped hands and the man’s muscled bulk to heal the injury before someone actually decides to see what the commotion is about. “Looks like you tripped.”

“I didn’t fucking trip! That bitch—”

“Hey what’s going on here?” 

They’ve drawn the attention of the station attendant who turns out to be a freckled young man with bright red hair. He looks younger than Maggie.

“That bitch burned my hand! She—”

Harry purses his lips, trying to keep ahold of his own temper. Punching the idiot on his disrespectful mouth will only exacerbate the situation and the last thing they need is more attention. 

“Sir,” the attendant says, frowning, “there’s no need for that kind of language.”

“Fuck you, you snowflake.” The man’s face has turned red as a tomato, the veins in his neck bulging like angry little vines. His breath reeks of alcohol. He thrusts his hand out, shoving it right into the boy’s face. “Look! She burned my— She— What the fuck?”

The attendant looks dubiously at the man’s unmarked hand.

Harry only feels the tiniest sliver of guilt at the deception. 

Slim fingers close around his wrist in a tight, almost painful grip. He looks back and meets black, black eyes. Macy’s gaze is unblinking, roving over his face with singular focus. She’d looked at him in a similar way when he’d returned from Tartarus. And then again after Fiona, when she’d told him he was no longer bound to anything, not even to them. 

Why does she look at him as if he’s been lost when they were only separated for a few short minutes? Why was it enough to push her into a state of barely held control?

Terrible answers flit through his mind and he’s reminded again of all the things he does and doesn’t know.

He loosens her grip gently and she startles, jerking her hand away. “I’m sorry,” she starts to say, but he only holds his hand out, waiting patiently. Hesitantly, she slips her hand in his and he threads their fingers together again, holding tight.

“It’s okay,” he says, smiling at her. “It’s okay.”

Macy stares at him for a long moment and then her shoulders go slack. She tips forward, leaning her forehead against his chest and starts laughing, bright and free. Distantly, Harry can hear the attendant trying to get their attention but he pays him no mind. It’s so much more important to catalog just how extraordinary it is to feel the mirth shaking through Macy’s body; how extraordinary it is to feel her laughter vibrating right into his chest.

“You really are unbelievably sweet,” Macy says. There’s laughter still in her voice and when she pulls back her eyes are clear, the brown of a sun-warmed tree in the forest once again. “It’s ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.”

“Well, apparently you like that so…” He smirks. “I think that says more about you than it does about me.”

“Um, excuse me. Ma’am? Sir?” 

They turn around reluctantly.

“I’ve called security,” the attendant says, gesturing at the fuming man shooting them dark looks over his shoulder as he’s lead away. The men escorting him wouldn’t look out of place at the line of scrimmage in a football field. “I’m not sure what happened exactly, but he was obviously being rude and disruptive. If you’d like to file a report with the faire, I can walk you to the office. If you’d like to call the cops, we can do that too. Whatever you decide, he’ll probably be banned so you don’t have to worry about him coming back. We don’t tolerate that kind of behavior here.” 

“Thank you,” Macy says. “That’s really good to know. But I think I’d like to leave it at that.”

“Of course. Please enjoy the rest of your stay.”

“Actually, I think I’d like to go now. Harry?”

He nods.

“Is there a way to the exit without having to go through that crowd again?”

“Oh sure,” the attendant says, gesturing for them to follow him. He takes them past the targets, toward a small gate at the back corner. “This back alley leads straight to the tavern near the west side exit. It’s technically just for staff but if anyone stops you, just tell them Kevin sent you through.” 

Harry claps his shoulder. “Thank you.”

Macy smiles. “We really appreciate your help, Kevin.”

“Just doing my job, Ma’am,” Kevin says, blushing and staring at Macy with rather starstruck eyes. Harry tries not to smile. “Y’all have a good day. I mean, um, a better day.” 

“You too.”

The alley beyond is half the width of the lanes, clearly made for expedience rather than comfort. Fortunately, neither of them mind the close confines.

Harry nudges Macy’s shoulder playfully. “I think Kevin had a crush on you.”

“You know he was kinda cute,” Macy says in a considering tone. She hums, tapping a finger on her chin. “What do you think? Should I go back and get his number?”

“You’d certainly make his—” 

“Wait! Wait, please!”

Chuckling, Harry says, “Looks like he’s about to give it to you.”

Macy shakes her head, rolling her eyes. “What is it, Kevin?”

The boy runs up to them, hands fiddling with something behind his back. His head is bowed shyly, gaze trained on the tops of his shoes. “I wanted to give you something.”

Harry exchanges an amused look with Macy.

“Okay,” she says, valiantly tamping down the smile pulling at her mouth.

Kevin steps closer, his cheeks a feverish red deeper than the shade of his hair. It’s by pure happenstance that Harry glances idly at the glass panes of the window over the boy’s shoulder and sees the glint of metal.

_ A knife. _

Panic surges through his body like lightning. 

He lunges without thought, faster than he’s ever moved before. He pushes Macy back with one hand, the other trying to catch the bladed arm headed right for her. He misses. Silver flashes through the air and a single, primal imperative to protect screams through his mind.

The cold blade sinks deep into his gut, the force of the thrust so vicious it almost feels like a punch. He grits his teeth against the white-hot pain tearing through him, using every bit of strength he has, physical and magical, to keep the knife and the boy’s arm in place. He’s not letting the assassin get a second chance at Macy. 

Behind him, Macy screams, hands grasping at his coat. The walls start to shake — wood and metal snapping, groaning, cracking. The windows shatter, thousands of shards raining down into the alley in a glittering carpet. Harry ducks his head but not a single one lands anywhere near him.

“No, please, no,” Macy says. Her hands close around his, and he groans as the knife jerks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“You have to… stay back.”

“I’ve got him. Let go. You have to heal.”

Harry glances at Kevin and indeed, he’s stopped moving entirely. His mouth opens and closes without sound, eerie and puppet-like. He lets go of the boy, leaning on Macy until his knees give out and he slumps to the ground. 

“Harry!” 

Vaguely, he can hear something large hit one of the walls followed by a heavy thud on the ground. He looks up and sees Kevin facedown on the dirt, one arm bent unnaturally. He can’t tell if the boy is still breathing.

“Could you—” Harry gasps, hands slick around the knife. “Could you pull... pull this out?”

“I—yes. Okay,” she says, pale and shaking. Her eyes are wide, shining with horror. “Hold on.”

The first time she pulls, her hand slips on the blood. The second time, her hand slips half-way through and the renewed agony of the blade moving inside him whites out his vision. When he comes to, he’s flat on the ground and Macy is leaning over him with tears in her eyes.

“There you are,” she whispers, smoothing a hand over his hair. There’s a painful pressure on his stomach, blunt and heavy. He looks down. The knife is gone, replaced by Macy’s hand over his, pressing hard over the wound. “You’re losing a lot of blood. Please, Harry, you have to heal now.”

“I’ll be alright,” he tries to say, but there’s more air than sound on his lips and he can’t keep his eyes open. God, he needs to focus. If only the pain in his stomach weren’t so shocking. Was this how it felt when he’d been stabbed as a mortal? How had James survived that? 

_ Focus. _

He forces his eyes open and almost regrets it. The expression on Macy’s face is unbearable. Well. That won’t do at all.

“That’s it,” she gasps, voice fervent with relief. “You’re doing it.”

Gradually, the pain eases until even the ache of tender, knitting flesh fades away. Harry sits up with a sigh. “Much better.” He remembers, suddenly, the boy lying broken down the alley. “Kevin! I need to—”

“He’s dead.”

“I have to check.” Macy clutches at his sleeve, but he has to look. He pulls away, shoving to his feet and breaking into a run. But before he even gets there, he knows it’s futile. The boy’s eyes are open but unseeing, clouded over with white. His chest is still. “Damn it.”

“He was dead before he attacked us. That’s what happens when she takes people.”

“What do you mean—”

“Come here for a second,” she says, pulling him back. “Please? I need you to come here for a second.” 

He goes.

She pulls him into her, so tight it feels like she wants to fuse them together. She’s shaking, he realizes. And his neck is wet.

“I’m alright,” he says, resting his cheek on top of her head. He strokes her hair, trying to soothe the silent sobs. “I’m alright.”

She doesn’t say a word for a long time. Somehow, no one comes to interrupt them.

And then finally: “We should go. They’ll be coming soon.”

“Who’s coming?”

“The people who killed us.”

Harry stares at her.

Macy smiles. “Don’t worry,” she says, stroking his cheek tenderly. “This time I’m going to kill them first.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 3-5 were originally one chapter but it got so long I had to break it up. I'm pretty sure Chapter 6 will be the conclusion but I keep saying there's only one chapter left and this thing just keeps getting longer so... 
> 
> I made a promise with myself to not watch a single episode of the new season until I'd finished this story so I've been holding off. No social media other than tumblr and pretty much peeking through my fingers whenever I open my account. If I don't post the end before 2x04, I may actually lose my mind. So many Hacy spoilers are popping up on my alerts and I can't read any of them!

**Author's Note:**

> I should be finishing the next chapter of The Mind Killer, but this idea just wouldn’t leave me alone. This is a much shorter story than that one, thankfully.


End file.
